February 22, 2009
Well today I did something interesting- I walked out my front door. Usually things start happening from there. There was loud music playing almost directly out my door- so I went to investigate. I have found that my villagers do not directly invite me to things. It is like they think I wouldn't want to come, but when I go they are so pleased. So I discover that there is a big dance party in the road in front of my house. All my villager Mama friends are there dancing away. I ask what is going on and I don't really get a straight answer- just some kind of party I guess. Fraida, a mama friend of mine, is there and we walk around and visit with people for a bit. I love Sundays in the village. I usually like to go to town because there are so many PCVs there of weekends, but you miss a lot in the village when you miss village Sundays. They are the party days because it is a day of rest from farming. I have decided to try to spend more weekends connecting with my community.
So walking around we run into everybody and eventually Mjemah's house girl who has Anna on her back. (Remember Anna? My own Tanzanian doll?) She is immediately transferred to my arms and then later strapped to my back. Just when I figure I am about done visiting we run into the male teachers and Maria (the female teacher who is the most party-girl type). They tell me C'mon, it is time for us to take you to a kilabu. I have wanted to see kilabu life in action for a little while now, so I go. First of all, kilabu is usually translated as club. This is sort of a joke in my mind. A village kilabu is a one room, thatched roof hut with wood benches lining the walls and a radio playing. Usually there is some manner of livestock present. People dance in the middle of the room. Sitting on the benches people drink pombe which is home- brewed alcohol normally made of bamboo, corn, or sugarcane. It is drunk out of communal tubs.
I walk into my first kilabu (We went to four, they are run out of houses all over the village) and my villagers love it. At first, I can't believe that I am walking into a bar with a baby on my back. But believe me, I am not the only one. Every woman in there is dancing around with a baby. More kids play in one corner with a marble. I find out TZ men are just as generous as men anywhere with buying drinks, and i turn away bucket after bucket of pombe insisting that I just want to taste a bit. They are just getting a kick out of me even being there. At the kilabu, I inherit a babu and a bibi (grandparents). Mama Mary has lately been going by Mama Brie because we spend a lot of time together, even though she can't be older than 30. Her parents are at this kilabu and tell me to visit them and that they are now my grandparents- great! The more people to look after me the better and they are adorable dancing. Anna is perfect the whole time and people started calling me Mama Anna, which is only slightly embarrassing when Mjemah's around. But otherwise, I am proud to pretend to be her mother. She now knows how to blow kisses too.
I hang out with villager after villager. I try pombe, not good, not bad. Looks like dirty water and tastes like vinegar. The Mwalimu Mkuu I can tell is worried that I will get drunk off one sip and he is like a dad telling me to be careful because it is strong. It is fun and I enjoy dancing and being an authentic villager. I think I will visit the kilabu again and no, the pull is not the pombe. It was great to see the villagers is a casual social setting, enjoying their lives. The smile on their faces when I would walk in was priceless. They were so pleased I was there experiencing their lives with them. This must be what being a celebrity feels like, never unknown but people are always happy to see you. Since this would have been Academy Awards night, which has been one of my favorite nights since childhood, I enjoy being a celebrity on the "red carpet" of the kilabu.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Bridge Over Troubled Water
"If you feel discouraged than there's a lack of color here.
Please don't worry lover,
It's really bursting at the seams,
Absorbing everything,
From spectrum's A to Z.
This is fact not fiction
For the first time in years."
- Death Cab For Cutie
February 20, 2009
My Angel Card today was "Risk". I did not feel like taking any though. I did not feel like getting out of bed. To be honest, I have felt a bit depressed lately. Not sure why, but I keep having to remind myself that I go through this in America too. My mom, who seems to be some sort of mind reader on how I am doing despite the distance, sent me "Yes!" magazine and the issue was all about happiness. So I decided to read it. A lot of it was about how living sustainably on the planet and helping others makes us happier human beings. When we connect to each other and the planet we feel good. There was an interesting section about water too. I am not sure why I am so passionate about water- maybe because I am a fire sign and need something to calm me down- but whatever the reason water issues really worry me. We rely on water for everything.
The number of places that you can drink water right out of the tap in Tanzania are zero, not even Dar es Salaam or Arusha has drinkable water without getting some horrible disease. The magazine said that 1.2 billion people on this planet do not have access to fresh water- crazy. Also almost 2 million children die each year due to their lack of access to clean water. In TZ, most diseases are water related from cholera, to dysentery, to typhoid, to schistosomias and more... I have had many questions from America about what I drink here. No, I don't just drink bottled water- I live in a village, remember? In my village we have ravines with streams that run through them. More advanced villages in TZ have a spicket or a well, but still this water is not drinkable. My village has a bad situation with only the ravines. So I decided to do some research for this blog entry. I asked kids and parents how many hours a day the kid spends fetching water. Fetching water is, shockingly, the primary school students job. Answer: about 2 hours a day. This is actually quite remarkable given that most of the kids fetch about 3 20 liter buckets a day and then to haul it up out of the ravines on their heads... Let's just say it would take me a lot longer. Imagine sending a 6-13 year old child into a ravine for 2 hours a day- in America this might be the time you spend reading to your child or they spend watching TV or playing with toys. It is no wonder the children struggle in school.
TZ is a country where people rely heavily on their crops for food and money, but their is no irrigation. The farmers must wait for the rain. (When I say farmer picture a woman. Most of the world's farmers are and in TZ this rings true.) So no wonder people are happy when it rains. We put our buckets along our roof lines and hope the crops are getting nice and wet. To get clean drinkable water there are a few options- boil it at a rolling boil for 15 minutes, filter it through a ceramic filter and two buckets (I can't really explain with out a picture), add bleach to it, or you can add these other expensive chemicals. My method is to boil and then filter with the ceramic candle. I don't like the idea of bleach or other chemicals in my body. I store my drinking water in a bucket. Many Tanzanians unfortunately don't go through all this trouble.
In the magazine they also talk about how a countries GDP has nothing to do with their level of happiness. On the graph, the U.S. is the country with the greatest discrepancy between how rich we are and how happy we say we are. Apparently, we are not very happy people. Of the countries surveyed, Indonesia is exactly our opposite. They ranked happiest with the least amount of money. TZ was not listed, so I decided to do my own informal survey. I started asking my villagers if they were happy. And you know- not one of them said no. It is not that they don't wish for more or know what is out there because they do to an extent. So what is their deal? I ask. You know what? All of their answers were small stuff: I am happy when I am with my neighbors, working outside, sitting down to a good meal, going to church, helping our community... What a great reminder for me.
I am supposed to go teach at the school, so I go but still feel a bit blue. Although I remind myself that I am always happier when I am actually doing something. I now do this thing at school where I just hang out in classrooms without a teacher. With 15 teachers and 12 classrooms you would think that there would always be a teacher present- you would be wrong. So I sneak into a class without a teacher with my finger over my lips so they all don't stand up and greet me in unison. Then I walk around the class just to check what you do in school without a teacher. We look at the one text book they are all huddled around, we draw pictures, we have a bit of fun. I have also started touching them- sounds creepy, but I realized when I reached out my hand initially they would flinch. They probably barely ever receive positive touch. My mom is a massage therapist and she talks about the innate need for humans to be touched. So I rub heads, pat backs and hold hands. Now they seem to like it.
Near the end of the day a storm comes and it starts to pour rain and the thunder and lightning begin. The kids are supposed to be mopping the classrooms, fetching water and digging. The teachers are all in their office. Our school's classrooms are arranged in a "U" shape, so when you stand in the dirt in the center you can see all the doors. The kids all stand under the eaves of the "U" waiting for the rain to stop so that they can go back to work. Water is cascading off the school's roof and forming huge mud puddles in the center of the "U". It decide it is time to use my "Risk Angel". The kids are bored, I am bored. So I kick off my shoes (kids rarely have shoes here) and run out from under the roof waterfall and into the mud and the rain. I scream and dance around a bit in the center in my sensible teacher's dress and then run to the other side. The students are all hysterical. On their faces is the look of "What the #@*$?" I can see them thinking this is not the way they know a teacher and an adult to act. I run back out in the mud with it splashing on my legs and I "Karibu" the kids to come out with me. Yep, that's right, I am making a fool of myself. Soon I have some kids out cracking up while I chase them and dance with them. Soon I have the whole school out there dancing in the rain. Me with 990 students in matching outfit and shaved heads. All I see are white little teeth and hear laughter over the pouring rain- water- in some places we still celebrate it. Tanzanian children are so beautiful, so special, so strong, it is impossible to describe here. So I won't. I will just keep it. Depression and unhappiness cannot exist in the presence of these children. Sharing this part of our lives has changed mine forever. Happiness to me, comes with working on building this bridge of cultural exchange and appreciation. I am soaking wet at home, but warm somehow.
"Yesterday a child came out to wander,
Caught a dragonfly in a jar,
Fearful when the sky was full of thunder,
And tearful at the falling of a star."
-Joni Mitchell
Please don't worry lover,
It's really bursting at the seams,
Absorbing everything,
From spectrum's A to Z.
This is fact not fiction
For the first time in years."
- Death Cab For Cutie
February 20, 2009
My Angel Card today was "Risk". I did not feel like taking any though. I did not feel like getting out of bed. To be honest, I have felt a bit depressed lately. Not sure why, but I keep having to remind myself that I go through this in America too. My mom, who seems to be some sort of mind reader on how I am doing despite the distance, sent me "Yes!" magazine and the issue was all about happiness. So I decided to read it. A lot of it was about how living sustainably on the planet and helping others makes us happier human beings. When we connect to each other and the planet we feel good. There was an interesting section about water too. I am not sure why I am so passionate about water- maybe because I am a fire sign and need something to calm me down- but whatever the reason water issues really worry me. We rely on water for everything.
The number of places that you can drink water right out of the tap in Tanzania are zero, not even Dar es Salaam or Arusha has drinkable water without getting some horrible disease. The magazine said that 1.2 billion people on this planet do not have access to fresh water- crazy. Also almost 2 million children die each year due to their lack of access to clean water. In TZ, most diseases are water related from cholera, to dysentery, to typhoid, to schistosomias and more... I have had many questions from America about what I drink here. No, I don't just drink bottled water- I live in a village, remember? In my village we have ravines with streams that run through them. More advanced villages in TZ have a spicket or a well, but still this water is not drinkable. My village has a bad situation with only the ravines. So I decided to do some research for this blog entry. I asked kids and parents how many hours a day the kid spends fetching water. Fetching water is, shockingly, the primary school students job. Answer: about 2 hours a day. This is actually quite remarkable given that most of the kids fetch about 3 20 liter buckets a day and then to haul it up out of the ravines on their heads... Let's just say it would take me a lot longer. Imagine sending a 6-13 year old child into a ravine for 2 hours a day- in America this might be the time you spend reading to your child or they spend watching TV or playing with toys. It is no wonder the children struggle in school.
TZ is a country where people rely heavily on their crops for food and money, but their is no irrigation. The farmers must wait for the rain. (When I say farmer picture a woman. Most of the world's farmers are and in TZ this rings true.) So no wonder people are happy when it rains. We put our buckets along our roof lines and hope the crops are getting nice and wet. To get clean drinkable water there are a few options- boil it at a rolling boil for 15 minutes, filter it through a ceramic filter and two buckets (I can't really explain with out a picture), add bleach to it, or you can add these other expensive chemicals. My method is to boil and then filter with the ceramic candle. I don't like the idea of bleach or other chemicals in my body. I store my drinking water in a bucket. Many Tanzanians unfortunately don't go through all this trouble.
In the magazine they also talk about how a countries GDP has nothing to do with their level of happiness. On the graph, the U.S. is the country with the greatest discrepancy between how rich we are and how happy we say we are. Apparently, we are not very happy people. Of the countries surveyed, Indonesia is exactly our opposite. They ranked happiest with the least amount of money. TZ was not listed, so I decided to do my own informal survey. I started asking my villagers if they were happy. And you know- not one of them said no. It is not that they don't wish for more or know what is out there because they do to an extent. So what is their deal? I ask. You know what? All of their answers were small stuff: I am happy when I am with my neighbors, working outside, sitting down to a good meal, going to church, helping our community... What a great reminder for me.
I am supposed to go teach at the school, so I go but still feel a bit blue. Although I remind myself that I am always happier when I am actually doing something. I now do this thing at school where I just hang out in classrooms without a teacher. With 15 teachers and 12 classrooms you would think that there would always be a teacher present- you would be wrong. So I sneak into a class without a teacher with my finger over my lips so they all don't stand up and greet me in unison. Then I walk around the class just to check what you do in school without a teacher. We look at the one text book they are all huddled around, we draw pictures, we have a bit of fun. I have also started touching them- sounds creepy, but I realized when I reached out my hand initially they would flinch. They probably barely ever receive positive touch. My mom is a massage therapist and she talks about the innate need for humans to be touched. So I rub heads, pat backs and hold hands. Now they seem to like it.
Near the end of the day a storm comes and it starts to pour rain and the thunder and lightning begin. The kids are supposed to be mopping the classrooms, fetching water and digging. The teachers are all in their office. Our school's classrooms are arranged in a "U" shape, so when you stand in the dirt in the center you can see all the doors. The kids all stand under the eaves of the "U" waiting for the rain to stop so that they can go back to work. Water is cascading off the school's roof and forming huge mud puddles in the center of the "U". It decide it is time to use my "Risk Angel". The kids are bored, I am bored. So I kick off my shoes (kids rarely have shoes here) and run out from under the roof waterfall and into the mud and the rain. I scream and dance around a bit in the center in my sensible teacher's dress and then run to the other side. The students are all hysterical. On their faces is the look of "What the #@*$?" I can see them thinking this is not the way they know a teacher and an adult to act. I run back out in the mud with it splashing on my legs and I "Karibu" the kids to come out with me. Yep, that's right, I am making a fool of myself. Soon I have some kids out cracking up while I chase them and dance with them. Soon I have the whole school out there dancing in the rain. Me with 990 students in matching outfit and shaved heads. All I see are white little teeth and hear laughter over the pouring rain- water- in some places we still celebrate it. Tanzanian children are so beautiful, so special, so strong, it is impossible to describe here. So I won't. I will just keep it. Depression and unhappiness cannot exist in the presence of these children. Sharing this part of our lives has changed mine forever. Happiness to me, comes with working on building this bridge of cultural exchange and appreciation. I am soaking wet at home, but warm somehow.
"Yesterday a child came out to wander,
Caught a dragonfly in a jar,
Fearful when the sky was full of thunder,
And tearful at the falling of a star."
-Joni Mitchell
Role Models
"People cannot be developed; they can only develop themselves."
-Julius Nyerere
February 18, 2009
I decide to teach a lesson about role models to get my students to start thinking about the people they want to become. Therefore, what "life skills" they should be developing. I am ridiculous when it comes to teaching. It takes me an entire day to lesson plan. This is a bit excessive, as I am teaching the same thing six times for only 40 minutes a piece. My method is to first write down everything I want to teach in English and then using every book I own translate it into Kiswahili. I probably don't need to revert to these books as much as I do but I am terrified of making grammar mistakes, even though the Wabena make plenty themselves. Then I take the lesson plan to Juster and have her correct it. Then I rewrite the whole thing in a little book that I will take with me to class. After I have written it I pace around my house reading it aloud like I am rehearsing for a part in a play. Yet, still I always struggle onstage. I think the Juster step might be the most important. When I brought her the role model lesson plan she started cracking up. "What?" I said, "Is it bad?" "No No" She said, catching her breath. The word I had so carefully looked up to describe a role model as someone you admire wouldn't work. Juster said it had strong sexual connotations... someone you admire sexually. I had used the word repeatedly, but she said the whole rest of the lesson was correct. A minor slip-up, which if it had not been checked, would have ruined the whole lesson. Cultural connotations run deep, so the word was changed to a more suitable one for what I meant.
My examples for them of people I admire were Barak Obama because through working hard in school, he worked his way to where he is. I explained to them the American dream, which could be the Tanzanian dream as well. Work hard and stay in school. My second example was my mom, illustrating to them that a woman can be so much more than a wife. I talked about how she always has every one's best interest at heart and that she is always creating beauty in our family, home and community. Reminding the girls that they don't have to just create children but can create the life that they want. Teaching goes like usual- rough. The students are not used to participating and are afraid of talking to me. Juster and Jen come in to check on me and I have them both sit down and pretend to be students and they talk about their role models. After that the students are more eager to share. They do exactly as I hope and most of them pick a teacher. After class, I tell the teacher that a kid picked them and why. The teachers seemed shocked, which sort of made sense but I was hoping it would remind them that they are supposed to be an inspiration to the children in our community. Finally, I call on a little girl I have never seen and she picked me. I was a bit shocked because I didn't know her. But she said she wanted to be brave enough to leave her home and see the world too and then teach the children there. As I looked down at her sweet face, I remembered drawing in pencil on our family globe everywhere in the world I wanted to go, and there were a lot of places! I have not been to even a fraction of them, but maybe even though I feel lost on a daily basis, I am right on track. I told her to work hard in school and she can do whatever she wants- "Dream lofty dreams and as you dream you shall become."
I only get through one class because at 1.30, for some reason, we decide to have a teacher's meeting. I figure it is like an in service day, but no, the kids don't get to go home. They are supposed to be "U safi wa mazingera", literally: cleaning the environment. In America, we hire landscapers for this job, but in TZ we have the kids out there with seeds, hoes, and plants. I sit in the meeting and space out. I watch the kids work outside, because after a half an hour of someone talking at me in Swahili, it starts to be hard to focus on listening. At the final end of the meeting after 3.5 hours of this. Th teachers tell me they are concerned because I am not gaining weight. They don't seem to realize that in America this is a good thing. In Africa, the fatter you are the richer, healthier and happier you are. So the Mwalimu Mkuu says they all need to take special interest in making sure I am eating enough because I am their guest. They really took it to heart because that night Mama Lau, Mama Atu and Mama Latifah all brought me almost identical dinners of ugali, beans, spinach and a banana. This was after I had already cooked and eaten dinner... so much for dieting in Africa.
-Julius Nyerere
February 18, 2009
I decide to teach a lesson about role models to get my students to start thinking about the people they want to become. Therefore, what "life skills" they should be developing. I am ridiculous when it comes to teaching. It takes me an entire day to lesson plan. This is a bit excessive, as I am teaching the same thing six times for only 40 minutes a piece. My method is to first write down everything I want to teach in English and then using every book I own translate it into Kiswahili. I probably don't need to revert to these books as much as I do but I am terrified of making grammar mistakes, even though the Wabena make plenty themselves. Then I take the lesson plan to Juster and have her correct it. Then I rewrite the whole thing in a little book that I will take with me to class. After I have written it I pace around my house reading it aloud like I am rehearsing for a part in a play. Yet, still I always struggle onstage. I think the Juster step might be the most important. When I brought her the role model lesson plan she started cracking up. "What?" I said, "Is it bad?" "No No" She said, catching her breath. The word I had so carefully looked up to describe a role model as someone you admire wouldn't work. Juster said it had strong sexual connotations... someone you admire sexually. I had used the word repeatedly, but she said the whole rest of the lesson was correct. A minor slip-up, which if it had not been checked, would have ruined the whole lesson. Cultural connotations run deep, so the word was changed to a more suitable one for what I meant.
My examples for them of people I admire were Barak Obama because through working hard in school, he worked his way to where he is. I explained to them the American dream, which could be the Tanzanian dream as well. Work hard and stay in school. My second example was my mom, illustrating to them that a woman can be so much more than a wife. I talked about how she always has every one's best interest at heart and that she is always creating beauty in our family, home and community. Reminding the girls that they don't have to just create children but can create the life that they want. Teaching goes like usual- rough. The students are not used to participating and are afraid of talking to me. Juster and Jen come in to check on me and I have them both sit down and pretend to be students and they talk about their role models. After that the students are more eager to share. They do exactly as I hope and most of them pick a teacher. After class, I tell the teacher that a kid picked them and why. The teachers seemed shocked, which sort of made sense but I was hoping it would remind them that they are supposed to be an inspiration to the children in our community. Finally, I call on a little girl I have never seen and she picked me. I was a bit shocked because I didn't know her. But she said she wanted to be brave enough to leave her home and see the world too and then teach the children there. As I looked down at her sweet face, I remembered drawing in pencil on our family globe everywhere in the world I wanted to go, and there were a lot of places! I have not been to even a fraction of them, but maybe even though I feel lost on a daily basis, I am right on track. I told her to work hard in school and she can do whatever she wants- "Dream lofty dreams and as you dream you shall become."
I only get through one class because at 1.30, for some reason, we decide to have a teacher's meeting. I figure it is like an in service day, but no, the kids don't get to go home. They are supposed to be "U safi wa mazingera", literally: cleaning the environment. In America, we hire landscapers for this job, but in TZ we have the kids out there with seeds, hoes, and plants. I sit in the meeting and space out. I watch the kids work outside, because after a half an hour of someone talking at me in Swahili, it starts to be hard to focus on listening. At the final end of the meeting after 3.5 hours of this. Th teachers tell me they are concerned because I am not gaining weight. They don't seem to realize that in America this is a good thing. In Africa, the fatter you are the richer, healthier and happier you are. So the Mwalimu Mkuu says they all need to take special interest in making sure I am eating enough because I am their guest. They really took it to heart because that night Mama Lau, Mama Atu and Mama Latifah all brought me almost identical dinners of ugali, beans, spinach and a banana. This was after I had already cooked and eaten dinner... so much for dieting in Africa.
Monday, February 16, 2009
I Get Sick... Again
Note: This entry contains some graphic or maybe just gross content...
February 6, 2009
Life in Tanzania is a wild. I start to feel a bit under the weather and figure I am getting the flu. I have a bit of the runs, a fever and an all around yucky feeling. So I head into town and meet up with two of my friends from my group, Sarah and Katelyn. Did I eat something bad? Drink bad water? Who knows. There are so many sicknesses here it is impossible to trace. That night at the hotel I just get worse, the other PCVs begin to worry, as I explain to them that when I am not horizontal black liquid runs out of my body. I text Adina who I am supposed to hang out with the next day anyways. She insits that she take me to the hospital, despite the fact that i say it will just pass and I will be fine. So The next day she picks me up in her truck and drives me to the Njombe Hospital. I could not have been happier to have her there, because, honestly, I was a bit afraid to go to my first hospital in Tanzania and when your best friend in the country is fluent in Swahili and assures you that things will turn out fine going feels a bit easier. Plus she knows everyone at the hospital, when I ask why, she says they have to go all the time. When her Dad broke his leg, when she broke her foot or how weak she was here with typhoid, or when her son had malaria... geez. So I am happy to have her hold my hand through the whole process.
The doctor wants a stool sample and a malaria test. Malaria comes back negative, and the stool sample comes back with no amebas, worms or giardia. So good, I think, it is nothing. Until he says that what is pouring out of my body is dark beacuse of dried blood from my stomach...(sorry, gross I know.) So he concludes it is some kind of stomach infection. He gives me oral rehydration salts, pain killers (My stomach felt horribly cramped), antibiotics and some sort of medication that basically kills everything that living in your stomach. Then it was back to Flower Farm for some R & R. I cannot express enough the kindness of Zummi and Adina. Who were generous with their down comforter, amazing pumpkin ginger soup, guest room and toilet paper supply. Gradually after a few movie nights I started to feel a bit better.
Now I am in town and headed back to village. Feeling better, so worry not. Thank you for all my Christmas care packages that I am just getting now... I am sending my love.
February 6, 2009
Life in Tanzania is a wild. I start to feel a bit under the weather and figure I am getting the flu. I have a bit of the runs, a fever and an all around yucky feeling. So I head into town and meet up with two of my friends from my group, Sarah and Katelyn. Did I eat something bad? Drink bad water? Who knows. There are so many sicknesses here it is impossible to trace. That night at the hotel I just get worse, the other PCVs begin to worry, as I explain to them that when I am not horizontal black liquid runs out of my body. I text Adina who I am supposed to hang out with the next day anyways. She insits that she take me to the hospital, despite the fact that i say it will just pass and I will be fine. So The next day she picks me up in her truck and drives me to the Njombe Hospital. I could not have been happier to have her there, because, honestly, I was a bit afraid to go to my first hospital in Tanzania and when your best friend in the country is fluent in Swahili and assures you that things will turn out fine going feels a bit easier. Plus she knows everyone at the hospital, when I ask why, she says they have to go all the time. When her Dad broke his leg, when she broke her foot or how weak she was here with typhoid, or when her son had malaria... geez. So I am happy to have her hold my hand through the whole process.
The doctor wants a stool sample and a malaria test. Malaria comes back negative, and the stool sample comes back with no amebas, worms or giardia. So good, I think, it is nothing. Until he says that what is pouring out of my body is dark beacuse of dried blood from my stomach...(sorry, gross I know.) So he concludes it is some kind of stomach infection. He gives me oral rehydration salts, pain killers (My stomach felt horribly cramped), antibiotics and some sort of medication that basically kills everything that living in your stomach. Then it was back to Flower Farm for some R & R. I cannot express enough the kindness of Zummi and Adina. Who were generous with their down comforter, amazing pumpkin ginger soup, guest room and toilet paper supply. Gradually after a few movie nights I started to feel a bit better.
Now I am in town and headed back to village. Feeling better, so worry not. Thank you for all my Christmas care packages that I am just getting now... I am sending my love.
Light My Fire
February 4, 2009
I am listening to my charcoal jiko lighting song, "Come on Baby, Light my Fire," Somehow The Doors just gets the stove going allowing me to cook my dinner of rice and beans. It is a weird thing to have all the time and no time at the same time. There are a million things I could be doing but nothing that I have to be doing. Days in Tanzania pass slowly, I will look at the clock and not be able to believe that it is only 11 am, yet moths pass quickly. I have already lived in TZed for eight months. When a finished service is 24-27 months this is already a big portion of it, yet still have accomplished so few of my goals. There is an ongoing discussion among TZ PCVs about which is easier: Being an Education Volunteer (like my friends Josh and Tally) or being a Health/Environment Volunteer (Like me and the rest of my group). The ed volunteers will complain because they have "real" jobs because they go to the secondary school everyday and teach a strict subject matter. They can't sleep in or take off for Njombe whenever they want. However, they do admit that there is something to be said about having a schedule and a specific goal. Then there is the rest of us... we create as we go. What do we really want to do in two years? We can do anything on any time schedule and hopefully we are connecting it to people living with AIDS... That is the only guidelines.
So instead of just having a job at the school given to me, I sort of have to go and "apply" for it. I had to walk up to my school, call a meeting with the head teacher and say in Swahili " I think I sort of want to teach.. oh no, only one day a week, maybe in the afternoon... I like my mornings free for RADIO AFRICA, yoga and coffee.... What do I want to teach?... oh, maybe something health or life skills related... Yeah a syllabus... I have not made one, I think I will just create as I go?" Then call a meeting with my village chairperson to say in Swahili, "I want to do an income generating project. Maybe with bees? I think I am interested in bees... No, I don't know anything about bees... Are you interested in bees? Do you think anyone in our village cares about bees?" Then our village nurse: "I think I want an AIDS Day. Everyone needs to get tested... Oh, they won't want to? hmm... well it could be a party and the admission for coming is a needle in the arm... oh, yeah it will be expensive.... I can try to write a grant. Oh, you want the testing to happen next month... Right, I will just pound out that grant." Maybe this type of volunteering prepares you more for the real world (unless you want to be a teacher), as it requires you to call your own meetings, come up with your own ideas and schedule, and work in a variety of settings. I am sure all of you working 40+ hours a week are a bit jealous- but this is an entirely new type of stress. "I know I am supposed to be doing something... but what?" Good thing that 75% of PC goals fall under the cultural exchange element. Culture, I can bring.
My first day of teaching life skills and health at the primary school starts off with a bang as I woke up with the runs (to put it nicely) and a fever at 2.30 am. My entire body hurt yet again. I pushed through the pain to make it to school where I taught (or attempted to teach) six classes each of 60-80 students. The head teacher and I thought it would be best to warm the students up slowly to having me (The Mzungu) run an entire class. So I really only explained the life skills approach, let them stare at me, and tried to be friends with them. It is one thing to buy a loaf of bread in Kiswahili but entirely different to teach a lesson plan in it. I can only force myself: sink or swim. I do a bit of both. It is about 7.45 am and I am about to go into my first class.. not sure I have ever been so sweaty in my life... Fever compounded with nerves. I am leaving the teacher's office when Simon says to me "Where is your stick?" I say, "I don't have one." Mjemah says, " You don't have to use it, but you have to bring a stick." And I say, "You know, I think I am just going to try it without." Juster says, "Brie, How will you control them? They have to at least think that you will hit them." I say, "I am going to try my way. Otherwise I will call for help." I know you at home are picturing it being difficult to control 80 primary school kids, but you are picturing American kids. East African kids are totally different. You are forgetting that these kids get no adult attention, so it will be mind blowing for them to hand out with the novel white woman. So I walk in armed only with a smile.
They are perfect. They greet me, they sit when I tell them to, there is no talking. I tell them what I want to teach them this year, and that I hope they will help me and be patient with me as I continue to learn Kiswahili. Eighty sets of eager eyes shine back. Finally, I tell them I want to know them too, so please stand up and tell me your name and your favorite thing to play. I can tell they think this is a bit odd, but obedience is the name of the game in the TZ school system. Many of them I can't understand as they speak quickly and hide their faces in embarrassment. I decide that self esteem is the most important thing that can come out of this, so I make a huge effort. I make eye contact with each of them, I say reassuring words, I nod, I smile until my face hurts... I tell myself just keep it fun and keep smiling. Despite that I am shaking with fear and messing up my Swahili (I just laugh and correct it... which gives them the cue that it is okay to giggle.) It turns out okay. Life will be hard for these kids, I will not be able to change that, but maybe they will look forward to my class and the time we spend together. After doing this all six times, I go back to the teacher's office in time to hear someone crying out and the familiar "Wap! Wap!" of a stick on skin. I turn immediately around, see Juster and tell her I am going home. I make it home in time to puke my guts out in my choo... which I imagine is a pretty typical response after an American's first full day at teaching at a Tanzanian primary school.
I am listening to my charcoal jiko lighting song, "Come on Baby, Light my Fire," Somehow The Doors just gets the stove going allowing me to cook my dinner of rice and beans. It is a weird thing to have all the time and no time at the same time. There are a million things I could be doing but nothing that I have to be doing. Days in Tanzania pass slowly, I will look at the clock and not be able to believe that it is only 11 am, yet moths pass quickly. I have already lived in TZed for eight months. When a finished service is 24-27 months this is already a big portion of it, yet still have accomplished so few of my goals. There is an ongoing discussion among TZ PCVs about which is easier: Being an Education Volunteer (like my friends Josh and Tally) or being a Health/Environment Volunteer (Like me and the rest of my group). The ed volunteers will complain because they have "real" jobs because they go to the secondary school everyday and teach a strict subject matter. They can't sleep in or take off for Njombe whenever they want. However, they do admit that there is something to be said about having a schedule and a specific goal. Then there is the rest of us... we create as we go. What do we really want to do in two years? We can do anything on any time schedule and hopefully we are connecting it to people living with AIDS... That is the only guidelines.
So instead of just having a job at the school given to me, I sort of have to go and "apply" for it. I had to walk up to my school, call a meeting with the head teacher and say in Swahili " I think I sort of want to teach.. oh no, only one day a week, maybe in the afternoon... I like my mornings free for RADIO AFRICA, yoga and coffee.... What do I want to teach?... oh, maybe something health or life skills related... Yeah a syllabus... I have not made one, I think I will just create as I go?" Then call a meeting with my village chairperson to say in Swahili, "I want to do an income generating project. Maybe with bees? I think I am interested in bees... No, I don't know anything about bees... Are you interested in bees? Do you think anyone in our village cares about bees?" Then our village nurse: "I think I want an AIDS Day. Everyone needs to get tested... Oh, they won't want to? hmm... well it could be a party and the admission for coming is a needle in the arm... oh, yeah it will be expensive.... I can try to write a grant. Oh, you want the testing to happen next month... Right, I will just pound out that grant." Maybe this type of volunteering prepares you more for the real world (unless you want to be a teacher), as it requires you to call your own meetings, come up with your own ideas and schedule, and work in a variety of settings. I am sure all of you working 40+ hours a week are a bit jealous- but this is an entirely new type of stress. "I know I am supposed to be doing something... but what?" Good thing that 75% of PC goals fall under the cultural exchange element. Culture, I can bring.
My first day of teaching life skills and health at the primary school starts off with a bang as I woke up with the runs (to put it nicely) and a fever at 2.30 am. My entire body hurt yet again. I pushed through the pain to make it to school where I taught (or attempted to teach) six classes each of 60-80 students. The head teacher and I thought it would be best to warm the students up slowly to having me (The Mzungu) run an entire class. So I really only explained the life skills approach, let them stare at me, and tried to be friends with them. It is one thing to buy a loaf of bread in Kiswahili but entirely different to teach a lesson plan in it. I can only force myself: sink or swim. I do a bit of both. It is about 7.45 am and I am about to go into my first class.. not sure I have ever been so sweaty in my life... Fever compounded with nerves. I am leaving the teacher's office when Simon says to me "Where is your stick?" I say, "I don't have one." Mjemah says, " You don't have to use it, but you have to bring a stick." And I say, "You know, I think I am just going to try it without." Juster says, "Brie, How will you control them? They have to at least think that you will hit them." I say, "I am going to try my way. Otherwise I will call for help." I know you at home are picturing it being difficult to control 80 primary school kids, but you are picturing American kids. East African kids are totally different. You are forgetting that these kids get no adult attention, so it will be mind blowing for them to hand out with the novel white woman. So I walk in armed only with a smile.
They are perfect. They greet me, they sit when I tell them to, there is no talking. I tell them what I want to teach them this year, and that I hope they will help me and be patient with me as I continue to learn Kiswahili. Eighty sets of eager eyes shine back. Finally, I tell them I want to know them too, so please stand up and tell me your name and your favorite thing to play. I can tell they think this is a bit odd, but obedience is the name of the game in the TZ school system. Many of them I can't understand as they speak quickly and hide their faces in embarrassment. I decide that self esteem is the most important thing that can come out of this, so I make a huge effort. I make eye contact with each of them, I say reassuring words, I nod, I smile until my face hurts... I tell myself just keep it fun and keep smiling. Despite that I am shaking with fear and messing up my Swahili (I just laugh and correct it... which gives them the cue that it is okay to giggle.) It turns out okay. Life will be hard for these kids, I will not be able to change that, but maybe they will look forward to my class and the time we spend together. After doing this all six times, I go back to the teacher's office in time to hear someone crying out and the familiar "Wap! Wap!" of a stick on skin. I turn immediately around, see Juster and tell her I am going home. I make it home in time to puke my guts out in my choo... which I imagine is a pretty typical response after an American's first full day at teaching at a Tanzanian primary school.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Sometimes You Gotta Dance
"Self-preservation is a full time occupation, I'm determined to survive on these shores I don't avert my eyes anymore in a man's world I am a woman by birth and after nineteen times around I have found they will stop at nothing once they know what you are worth. Talk to me now. I played the powerless in too many dark scenes and I was blessed with a birth and a death and I guess I just want some say in between. Don't you understand in the day to day, in the face to face, I have to act just as strong as I can, just to preserve a place where I can be who I am."
-Ani DiFranco
February 1, 2009
I am walking through ankle deep mud in my best shoes. A small girl in a blue frilly dress is asleep on my shoulder. I am sore from holding her but I am afraid that if I move it will wake her. Pulling on my other hand and telling me the rain is coming is another girl, large dark eyes look quizzically at me. Behind me two small boys squeal with glee as they run barefoot through the mud puddles. Why am I in this situation, In the rain with four small African children? Maybe I should start at the beginning of this day, although it already seems so long ago. My best friend here, Kate, always says before we go out at night something along the lines of "I love Tanzania, you never know who you are going to meet, what you are going to do or where you will end up." It could not be more true for everything PCVs do. I know that even in America you don't know how your day will turn out, but here you really just don't know. We have control of so little.
So I wake up at 6.30 am because my village chairperson is at my door. I like this man. He has no idea what to do with me but he tries. He tells me that there is a meeting about coffee that morning and i should come. (I hope this meeting involves drinking some coffee and not just growing it, but i have a feeling it doesn't.) So I rush to get all ready and run to wake-up Juster just in case I might miss any portion of what is being said. We finally get to his office and he tells me that the people are late but would I like to see some coffee growing? Sure, why not? I am already out here. So at the late hour of 7.15 am I am tromping through a coffee field after the most respected man in my village who is dressed like an Oregon Duck- in solid dark green with a bright gold chai hat. The coffee field is beautiful in early morning and an innovative cash crop for my villagers. So I am glad to know about it. We head back to his office to wait for the meeting, but I take advantage of the moment to get my notebook and go over my agenda for what I want his help with.
After all, I am wearing my "Let's get it done" outfit. I should explain it. I think it is now clear to the reader that women are second class citizens in TZ, particularly in a village. This is something that I will never be good at accepting. I find more and more of a likeness with my sister, Raeme, because we are two of a kind, feisty and firey and likely to say things like, "It's not fair." Often I feel her strength compounded with my own when I face what I feel is an injustice in Africa. So I have this outfit- nothing special it just seems to command more respect. We were told to dress like Tanzanians but I find the more American I dress the more respect I get. The outfit is jeans, with my new African wrap around skirt over it. My new Obama T-shirt, a grungy green sweatshirt and maybe the best thing I brought to Africa- my paperboy hat. Women don't wear hats here, at least not masculine hats, but the weird thing is the response I get from women is that I look beautiful and from men is more respect so it is a win/win hat.
I start to go over what I think the village needs. Meanwhile, Kimulimuli, who has taken to riding on my shoulder, is sitting in Juster's lap while she is busy de-fleaing him with her fingers. Ugh... I think. This is so unprofessional- I am in a meeting with the most important man in my village in his office (really a hut) and my kitten is being de-fleaed. This goes against the meeting professionalism standards that I have been taught for my entire adult life. Then I notice the man across from me in the waiting area is in a sweatpants outfit, a top hat and has a big brown goat on a leash. There it is! This is Africa! Didn't I come here in part to escape the professionalism standards of the Western world? Extend play a bit longer? A goat and cat come to meetings because they can and no one thinks twice about it except for me. The Chairman listens to my ideas, is excited about beekeeping and has infinite more projects for me to think about most of which require a lot of money and time. Since I am the first volunteer, they believe that I can do anything.The clock strikes 10 and the bells toll for church- this is technically when it starts but no one will be there for hours still... Can't be on time by any means.
Today church will be special. It is the day the Mwalimu Mkuu's (Head teacher) son will be baptized. The MM's wife (Mama Atu), me, Juster, Jen, Mama Latifah, Mama Lau, Mama Clevel, and Maria (All PS Teachers) and Atu (The MM's seven year old daughter) walk to church together. The male teachers will meet us there because they sit in a separate section from the women. I get the honor of carrying the young son who rests his head against my neck. Along the way we pass a popular kilabu (hut where men drink homemade alcohol called pombe). My driver, Stanley, is there along with other men I know most of who are my age or older. The women I am with very properly avert their eyes, curtsy, and murmur respectful greetings. The men just nod to them. I decide to shake things up a bit. I go right over to them, shake their hands, greet at an equal level, make eye contact and tease them for drinking instead of attending church. This is met with laughter and an offer of a chair and a dirty cup of pombe. I reject all and move on. Juster tells me I should not have greeted men this way, but before I can say anything, Maria (who is actually somehow a bit modern and runs a kilabu after school hours) interjects and says it is okay for me to do because I am different. I try to tell them that they don't have to behave this way either- but trying to change a cultural custom in a TZ village is rough. This is one of the hardest things about living here. The women have repeatedly asked me who I need to get permission from. Permission for what? I ask. The answer: permission to leave the village, buy things, plant things- permission for living! The women really need to talk with my Dad and Reed if they think things like getting permission work with me. TZ women are apparently unaware of rebellious American girls. I tell them I don't need permission from anyone, it's a free country (Maybe that doesn't work so well here),- I am unmarried and my Dad's not here and in America women are independent. Just the same they suggest maybe you can ask the MM or the Chairperson for permission- like my life is lacking by not having a man tell me what to do. "No No" I say. "I like them, I will ask their advice, but never their permission."
Finally we get to the church and take our seats in the women's section. The baby needs to nurse so I hand him to Mama Atu. Atu sits next to me holding my hand. She is attempting, like usual, not to stare at me. I can tell her parents have told her not to, but I catch her watching me out of the corner of my eye. Mwalimu Mjemah comes over to place his daughter, Anna, next to Atu before sitting with the male teachers. Oh Anna- where to begin? Anna is the most beautiful perfect looking child I have ever seen. Today she is decked out in a pale blue silky and white lace dress, gold studs shine in her ears and bracelets and necklaces deck her body- some I recognize are to ward off the evil eye and other such witchcraft but many are just for beauty- sake. A little two year old princess, she is darling. Her skin is smooth and dark, like someone has polished it. Her teeth are small and white and surrounded by large upturned lips. Her eyes slant when she smiles. Everyday she looks like a princess. A total "Daddy's girl", I think every cent of Mjemah's teacher salary goes to that child. She is his only child and it is sweet to see a Tanzanian man so in love with his daughter. I am not sure where her mother is. I love Anna, if you cannot tell. She is frilly, girly and precious with just one problem- she hates me. I cannot get close to her. She is terrified and cries whenever she sees me. Today at church she makes like she is going to cry even with Atu in between us, but Atu coddles her into behaving. The great thing is I have finally found a way to distract myself during church, I try to get Anna to like me.
I use little movements, nothing to sudden but suddenly I have her on my lap. Her blue dress laid out primly and all my rings hanging off her fingers. Her eyes are slanted and I see her white teeth, her lips spread in a smile. She spends church babbling away in Swahili to me ( I learned a lot of Swahili from her). I hold her like my own little doll and contemplate how I could take her from Mjemah. At the end of the service Mjemah is beaming. I think he is proud of her but also clearly happy that I love his daughter. He attempts to take her back but she cries no that she wants "Bee!" She is mine! At least for the day. Mjemah goes off to the kilabu with the rest of the male teachers who will meet us at the MM's house that night for the party. The women are supposed to start cooking. First they have to go to the farms to collect the food to cook. The farms are outside the village and I can tell Anna is tired, so I suggest I go back to the MM's home to wait to help cook.
So I set out carrying Anna across my village but Lau and Clevel want to come because the Mzungu is so much more exciting than their mothers. These two boys spend all day in the dirt with no supervision. All four of their parents are teachers and always too busy for them. Clevel we joke is Mchumba Yangu (My Fiancee). He is three and very proud that we are getting married. He is the son of Mtitu and Wimbe. Lau is the five year old son of Vakinga and Simon. On a side note, I am lucky to have these kids. Being teachers kids they are not afraid of me at all and set a good example for the rest of the village kids. After a few feet I look down and see Atu holding my hand. Both her parents are teachers too. The head teacher and Anita or Mama Atu. Atu is a serious little girl who works hard and is always respectful. I think maybe the mamas just wanted a baby sitter before I realize they sent Atu to be mine and Lau and Clevel never need anyone. And it starts to rain, and Anna falls asleep and there I am trekking across my village with mud in my church shoes and four African children. The villagers we pass look at my with curiosity, but I am proud to be with these children who love me. We finally get to the house. The boys play with sticks, I sing with Anna and Atu sets about starting fires and cleaning the house for her mothers arrival.
The mamas come and we sit in the smoky cooking hut together. We finish and the men come back from drinking with sodas in crates for the rest of the evening. I am told to sit to the right of the MM to the left is Simon (2nd in command). I realize once again that I am being put with the men. I am surrounded by Msanga, Mjemah, Mwalango, Wimbe... the male teachers. Mama Atu, who in my mind should be next to her husband is washing our hands with a pitcher and basin. The women begin to come with plates heaped with food. The woman comes and kneels in front of her husband and with down turned eyes offers the plate of food. The man takes it, nods and she rises. I try in my head to see this as an act of love, but it is difficult. After Mama Lau serves Simon, she comes to me with food, kneels and looks ashamed. I notice her hands which are worn with farming. She and I are the same age, yet she has creases by her eyes, her body has given birth to a healthy son, her mind has tried to shape the education of countless children in our village. I wonder why she looks ashamed. Farmer, teacher, mother, woman... I feel insignificant and unaccomplished next to her, yet what can I do but take the plate (Which she has carefully prepared with no meat) and murmur "Asante." And think of a Setswana poem I came across in a book, "We are the ones who first ploughed the earth when God made it. We were the ones who made the food. We are the ones who look after the men when they are little boys, when they are young men, and when they grow old and are about to die. We are always there. But we are just women and nobody sees us."
So I eat with the male teachers, the women eat in another room and the children eat in the dirt in the yard. After the food, Jen and Mama Latifah decide it is time to dance. So all of my teachers get up and dance but I sit cautiously with Mama Atu while she nurses her child. If you have never seen a room full of TZ PS teachers dance than come visit. It is a sight. TZ dancing is great because everyone does their own thing. What is not great is when they come together for a jump or toe tap that is on some unknown (to me) cue. So I sit on the side and they yell "Brie, Cheza!" (Dance!) The women look great and the men handsome except Mwlango and Mjemah who are dancing like women to make Simon laugh which makes us all laugh. There comes a point in life when you just have to dive in head first- coming to Africa was one of those points for me. Where you have to cast all fears, doubts and inhibitions aside and grab the bull by the horns so to speak. There have been countless moments since coming here that I have had to jump right in. To be an American in Africa you cannot be afraid. No fear of being different, foolish, the butt of the joke, you have to smile and do something Americans suck at---- be humble. Say" I don't know... I don't understand... I need help." You have to give up our culture of wanting to be the best and have all the answers. To give up being in control and put together. I sit there and watch the party and wonder how many times in my life have I sat on the sidelines? How many experiences have I let myself miss? How much have I let my life be controlled by some kind of fear? ( I almost missed this whole experience of Africa because of fear!) This stops now. This is MY village in Tanzania! I stand up to the shouts and cheers of my friends and I dance all out. So what if they jump two feet higher on the jumps and I shake to the left instead of the right. Someone is always there to hold my hand and guide me. I forget we are different and ignore that my white foot with the red toenails goes into the center circle seconds later than all the brown ones. We are having fun and I am included. Then there is always the great thing about Tanzanians that appeals to our American pride- the shouts of "Brie, Umecheza nzuri" (You dance well) or "Sasa, Umependeza!" (Now you have become beautiful). We dance and dance and I wonder why my parents never had parties like this when I was little and then I remember that when they were 24 I was not 5 like most of these kids. But here the kids dance, the parents dance, I dance, until Jen and Juster dance me right on home. And I am content and pleased with myself. It is time to stop sitting ones out. I live in Tanzania- I am game for anything.
-Ani DiFranco
February 1, 2009
I am walking through ankle deep mud in my best shoes. A small girl in a blue frilly dress is asleep on my shoulder. I am sore from holding her but I am afraid that if I move it will wake her. Pulling on my other hand and telling me the rain is coming is another girl, large dark eyes look quizzically at me. Behind me two small boys squeal with glee as they run barefoot through the mud puddles. Why am I in this situation, In the rain with four small African children? Maybe I should start at the beginning of this day, although it already seems so long ago. My best friend here, Kate, always says before we go out at night something along the lines of "I love Tanzania, you never know who you are going to meet, what you are going to do or where you will end up." It could not be more true for everything PCVs do. I know that even in America you don't know how your day will turn out, but here you really just don't know. We have control of so little.
So I wake up at 6.30 am because my village chairperson is at my door. I like this man. He has no idea what to do with me but he tries. He tells me that there is a meeting about coffee that morning and i should come. (I hope this meeting involves drinking some coffee and not just growing it, but i have a feeling it doesn't.) So I rush to get all ready and run to wake-up Juster just in case I might miss any portion of what is being said. We finally get to his office and he tells me that the people are late but would I like to see some coffee growing? Sure, why not? I am already out here. So at the late hour of 7.15 am I am tromping through a coffee field after the most respected man in my village who is dressed like an Oregon Duck- in solid dark green with a bright gold chai hat. The coffee field is beautiful in early morning and an innovative cash crop for my villagers. So I am glad to know about it. We head back to his office to wait for the meeting, but I take advantage of the moment to get my notebook and go over my agenda for what I want his help with.
After all, I am wearing my "Let's get it done" outfit. I should explain it. I think it is now clear to the reader that women are second class citizens in TZ, particularly in a village. This is something that I will never be good at accepting. I find more and more of a likeness with my sister, Raeme, because we are two of a kind, feisty and firey and likely to say things like, "It's not fair." Often I feel her strength compounded with my own when I face what I feel is an injustice in Africa. So I have this outfit- nothing special it just seems to command more respect. We were told to dress like Tanzanians but I find the more American I dress the more respect I get. The outfit is jeans, with my new African wrap around skirt over it. My new Obama T-shirt, a grungy green sweatshirt and maybe the best thing I brought to Africa- my paperboy hat. Women don't wear hats here, at least not masculine hats, but the weird thing is the response I get from women is that I look beautiful and from men is more respect so it is a win/win hat.
I start to go over what I think the village needs. Meanwhile, Kimulimuli, who has taken to riding on my shoulder, is sitting in Juster's lap while she is busy de-fleaing him with her fingers. Ugh... I think. This is so unprofessional- I am in a meeting with the most important man in my village in his office (really a hut) and my kitten is being de-fleaed. This goes against the meeting professionalism standards that I have been taught for my entire adult life. Then I notice the man across from me in the waiting area is in a sweatpants outfit, a top hat and has a big brown goat on a leash. There it is! This is Africa! Didn't I come here in part to escape the professionalism standards of the Western world? Extend play a bit longer? A goat and cat come to meetings because they can and no one thinks twice about it except for me. The Chairman listens to my ideas, is excited about beekeeping and has infinite more projects for me to think about most of which require a lot of money and time. Since I am the first volunteer, they believe that I can do anything.The clock strikes 10 and the bells toll for church- this is technically when it starts but no one will be there for hours still... Can't be on time by any means.
Today church will be special. It is the day the Mwalimu Mkuu's (Head teacher) son will be baptized. The MM's wife (Mama Atu), me, Juster, Jen, Mama Latifah, Mama Lau, Mama Clevel, and Maria (All PS Teachers) and Atu (The MM's seven year old daughter) walk to church together. The male teachers will meet us there because they sit in a separate section from the women. I get the honor of carrying the young son who rests his head against my neck. Along the way we pass a popular kilabu (hut where men drink homemade alcohol called pombe). My driver, Stanley, is there along with other men I know most of who are my age or older. The women I am with very properly avert their eyes, curtsy, and murmur respectful greetings. The men just nod to them. I decide to shake things up a bit. I go right over to them, shake their hands, greet at an equal level, make eye contact and tease them for drinking instead of attending church. This is met with laughter and an offer of a chair and a dirty cup of pombe. I reject all and move on. Juster tells me I should not have greeted men this way, but before I can say anything, Maria (who is actually somehow a bit modern and runs a kilabu after school hours) interjects and says it is okay for me to do because I am different. I try to tell them that they don't have to behave this way either- but trying to change a cultural custom in a TZ village is rough. This is one of the hardest things about living here. The women have repeatedly asked me who I need to get permission from. Permission for what? I ask. The answer: permission to leave the village, buy things, plant things- permission for living! The women really need to talk with my Dad and Reed if they think things like getting permission work with me. TZ women are apparently unaware of rebellious American girls. I tell them I don't need permission from anyone, it's a free country (Maybe that doesn't work so well here),- I am unmarried and my Dad's not here and in America women are independent. Just the same they suggest maybe you can ask the MM or the Chairperson for permission- like my life is lacking by not having a man tell me what to do. "No No" I say. "I like them, I will ask their advice, but never their permission."
Finally we get to the church and take our seats in the women's section. The baby needs to nurse so I hand him to Mama Atu. Atu sits next to me holding my hand. She is attempting, like usual, not to stare at me. I can tell her parents have told her not to, but I catch her watching me out of the corner of my eye. Mwalimu Mjemah comes over to place his daughter, Anna, next to Atu before sitting with the male teachers. Oh Anna- where to begin? Anna is the most beautiful perfect looking child I have ever seen. Today she is decked out in a pale blue silky and white lace dress, gold studs shine in her ears and bracelets and necklaces deck her body- some I recognize are to ward off the evil eye and other such witchcraft but many are just for beauty- sake. A little two year old princess, she is darling. Her skin is smooth and dark, like someone has polished it. Her teeth are small and white and surrounded by large upturned lips. Her eyes slant when she smiles. Everyday she looks like a princess. A total "Daddy's girl", I think every cent of Mjemah's teacher salary goes to that child. She is his only child and it is sweet to see a Tanzanian man so in love with his daughter. I am not sure where her mother is. I love Anna, if you cannot tell. She is frilly, girly and precious with just one problem- she hates me. I cannot get close to her. She is terrified and cries whenever she sees me. Today at church she makes like she is going to cry even with Atu in between us, but Atu coddles her into behaving. The great thing is I have finally found a way to distract myself during church, I try to get Anna to like me.
I use little movements, nothing to sudden but suddenly I have her on my lap. Her blue dress laid out primly and all my rings hanging off her fingers. Her eyes are slanted and I see her white teeth, her lips spread in a smile. She spends church babbling away in Swahili to me ( I learned a lot of Swahili from her). I hold her like my own little doll and contemplate how I could take her from Mjemah. At the end of the service Mjemah is beaming. I think he is proud of her but also clearly happy that I love his daughter. He attempts to take her back but she cries no that she wants "Bee!" She is mine! At least for the day. Mjemah goes off to the kilabu with the rest of the male teachers who will meet us at the MM's house that night for the party. The women are supposed to start cooking. First they have to go to the farms to collect the food to cook. The farms are outside the village and I can tell Anna is tired, so I suggest I go back to the MM's home to wait to help cook.
So I set out carrying Anna across my village but Lau and Clevel want to come because the Mzungu is so much more exciting than their mothers. These two boys spend all day in the dirt with no supervision. All four of their parents are teachers and always too busy for them. Clevel we joke is Mchumba Yangu (My Fiancee). He is three and very proud that we are getting married. He is the son of Mtitu and Wimbe. Lau is the five year old son of Vakinga and Simon. On a side note, I am lucky to have these kids. Being teachers kids they are not afraid of me at all and set a good example for the rest of the village kids. After a few feet I look down and see Atu holding my hand. Both her parents are teachers too. The head teacher and Anita or Mama Atu. Atu is a serious little girl who works hard and is always respectful. I think maybe the mamas just wanted a baby sitter before I realize they sent Atu to be mine and Lau and Clevel never need anyone. And it starts to rain, and Anna falls asleep and there I am trekking across my village with mud in my church shoes and four African children. The villagers we pass look at my with curiosity, but I am proud to be with these children who love me. We finally get to the house. The boys play with sticks, I sing with Anna and Atu sets about starting fires and cleaning the house for her mothers arrival.
The mamas come and we sit in the smoky cooking hut together. We finish and the men come back from drinking with sodas in crates for the rest of the evening. I am told to sit to the right of the MM to the left is Simon (2nd in command). I realize once again that I am being put with the men. I am surrounded by Msanga, Mjemah, Mwalango, Wimbe... the male teachers. Mama Atu, who in my mind should be next to her husband is washing our hands with a pitcher and basin. The women begin to come with plates heaped with food. The woman comes and kneels in front of her husband and with down turned eyes offers the plate of food. The man takes it, nods and she rises. I try in my head to see this as an act of love, but it is difficult. After Mama Lau serves Simon, she comes to me with food, kneels and looks ashamed. I notice her hands which are worn with farming. She and I are the same age, yet she has creases by her eyes, her body has given birth to a healthy son, her mind has tried to shape the education of countless children in our village. I wonder why she looks ashamed. Farmer, teacher, mother, woman... I feel insignificant and unaccomplished next to her, yet what can I do but take the plate (Which she has carefully prepared with no meat) and murmur "Asante." And think of a Setswana poem I came across in a book, "We are the ones who first ploughed the earth when God made it. We were the ones who made the food. We are the ones who look after the men when they are little boys, when they are young men, and when they grow old and are about to die. We are always there. But we are just women and nobody sees us."
So I eat with the male teachers, the women eat in another room and the children eat in the dirt in the yard. After the food, Jen and Mama Latifah decide it is time to dance. So all of my teachers get up and dance but I sit cautiously with Mama Atu while she nurses her child. If you have never seen a room full of TZ PS teachers dance than come visit. It is a sight. TZ dancing is great because everyone does their own thing. What is not great is when they come together for a jump or toe tap that is on some unknown (to me) cue. So I sit on the side and they yell "Brie, Cheza!" (Dance!) The women look great and the men handsome except Mwlango and Mjemah who are dancing like women to make Simon laugh which makes us all laugh. There comes a point in life when you just have to dive in head first- coming to Africa was one of those points for me. Where you have to cast all fears, doubts and inhibitions aside and grab the bull by the horns so to speak. There have been countless moments since coming here that I have had to jump right in. To be an American in Africa you cannot be afraid. No fear of being different, foolish, the butt of the joke, you have to smile and do something Americans suck at---- be humble. Say" I don't know... I don't understand... I need help." You have to give up our culture of wanting to be the best and have all the answers. To give up being in control and put together. I sit there and watch the party and wonder how many times in my life have I sat on the sidelines? How many experiences have I let myself miss? How much have I let my life be controlled by some kind of fear? ( I almost missed this whole experience of Africa because of fear!) This stops now. This is MY village in Tanzania! I stand up to the shouts and cheers of my friends and I dance all out. So what if they jump two feet higher on the jumps and I shake to the left instead of the right. Someone is always there to hold my hand and guide me. I forget we are different and ignore that my white foot with the red toenails goes into the center circle seconds later than all the brown ones. We are having fun and I am included. Then there is always the great thing about Tanzanians that appeals to our American pride- the shouts of "Brie, Umecheza nzuri" (You dance well) or "Sasa, Umependeza!" (Now you have become beautiful). We dance and dance and I wonder why my parents never had parties like this when I was little and then I remember that when they were 24 I was not 5 like most of these kids. But here the kids dance, the parents dance, I dance, until Jen and Juster dance me right on home. And I am content and pleased with myself. It is time to stop sitting ones out. I live in Tanzania- I am game for anything.
Radishes
"When you ain't got nothing, you got nothing to loose, you're invisible now, you got no secrets to conceal. How does it feel? How does it feel to be on your own, with no direction home, like a complete unknown, like a rolling stone?"
-Bob Dylan
(I am clearly on a bit of a Dylan kick. To be fair, I have been on one for about 8 years... My Dad's on one too, although I think his goes back further than 8 years...)
January 31, 2009
PC is always asking us how many vulnerable children we are working with. I always find this a stupid question as what child in Africa is not vulnerable? However, I just discovered that I am doing better than I thought, as a discovered my little besti, Katherine's, past. Turns out Katherine who is seven and her sister Rebecca who is ten are orphans. Apparently, their mother got sick, shortly after their father ran off with another woman and then their mother died. This was three years ago in another village. They can to my village then to live with their distant uncle. Msango, their uncle, in a teacher at the P. School, and is a sweet and smiling man. I am glad they are in good hands now and I guess I should have know he was not their father.
Before I came here, I had many conversations with Americans about the state of Africa. "African are always killing each other" or "always in poverty" seems to be common American beliefs. It is not that these generalizations are not sometimes true, but it is a wonder to me how any of them turn out any differently when this is their past. I watch Katherine as she tells me the story. Her little shaved head proudly erect. Her squeaky little voice is even, despite that it is telling me about loosing both parents, about heartache at the age of four. She is not looking for pity or money, she is not telling me because she expects anything. I can tell she does not even think much about her story. It isn't even unique. In fact, there are probably dozens of other kids at the school with stories just like it. Yet she is bravely speaking to the stranger, she is always polite, smiling, she tells me she wants to be a teacher. I came here to teach health and life skills to these kids... seems funny. In ten minutes Katherine has taught me more about life skills than I could hope to teach her. Her story tells of resilience and hope in a small child.
I grew a radish. I think it might be the most beautiful radish I have ever seen. Although to be fair, it is the only radish I have seen in this country. It has a nice rosy- hue and is perfectly round and did not split in the ground. In America, self-help books are always telling you to be thankful for the little things in life. They do not tell you that this can be achieved by moving to Africa, where you find yourself writing journal entries about radishes by candle light. hmmmm.... Sometimes I wonder why people say my blog is interesting....
-Bob Dylan
(I am clearly on a bit of a Dylan kick. To be fair, I have been on one for about 8 years... My Dad's on one too, although I think his goes back further than 8 years...)
January 31, 2009
PC is always asking us how many vulnerable children we are working with. I always find this a stupid question as what child in Africa is not vulnerable? However, I just discovered that I am doing better than I thought, as a discovered my little besti, Katherine's, past. Turns out Katherine who is seven and her sister Rebecca who is ten are orphans. Apparently, their mother got sick, shortly after their father ran off with another woman and then their mother died. This was three years ago in another village. They can to my village then to live with their distant uncle. Msango, their uncle, in a teacher at the P. School, and is a sweet and smiling man. I am glad they are in good hands now and I guess I should have know he was not their father.
Before I came here, I had many conversations with Americans about the state of Africa. "African are always killing each other" or "always in poverty" seems to be common American beliefs. It is not that these generalizations are not sometimes true, but it is a wonder to me how any of them turn out any differently when this is their past. I watch Katherine as she tells me the story. Her little shaved head proudly erect. Her squeaky little voice is even, despite that it is telling me about loosing both parents, about heartache at the age of four. She is not looking for pity or money, she is not telling me because she expects anything. I can tell she does not even think much about her story. It isn't even unique. In fact, there are probably dozens of other kids at the school with stories just like it. Yet she is bravely speaking to the stranger, she is always polite, smiling, she tells me she wants to be a teacher. I came here to teach health and life skills to these kids... seems funny. In ten minutes Katherine has taught me more about life skills than I could hope to teach her. Her story tells of resilience and hope in a small child.
I grew a radish. I think it might be the most beautiful radish I have ever seen. Although to be fair, it is the only radish I have seen in this country. It has a nice rosy- hue and is perfectly round and did not split in the ground. In America, self-help books are always telling you to be thankful for the little things in life. They do not tell you that this can be achieved by moving to Africa, where you find yourself writing journal entries about radishes by candle light. hmmmm.... Sometimes I wonder why people say my blog is interesting....
Salad, Rats, and other stories from you African Queen
"I'm out here a thousand miles from my home, Walkin' a road other men have gone down, I'm seein' a new world of people and things, paupers and peasants, and princes and kings. Hey Hey Woodie Guthrie, I wrote you a song 'bout a funny old world that's a-comin' along, seems sick and it's hungry, it's tired and it's torn. It looks like it's a-dyin' and it's hardly been born."
-Dylan
January 30, 2009
So the best rumor ever started about me in my village. I still cannot believe that I did not have to start it myself. I was at the P. School in my office working on a life skills lesson plan and on my way out two young girls asked me a question. I did not understand it but I had my dictionary, so I looked up the words. Basically they had heard that I was a queen in America and they were wondering if this is true. All I could think was "I am really going to have a complex when I leave this country." They said they had seen pictures of queens in books and they look like me. I told them that there is no queen in America, remember we have President Obama (Still not over it!) and no official queen. But I tell them about Michelle Obama and explain that she looks like them, and is the closest thing to an American Queen. This thrills the girls and I feel proud to be an American, for probably the 5th time in my life.
My garden is out of control. I have taken the attitude that I take with all things in Africa- survival of the fittest. This applies to my clothes, cat, veggies and me. Unfortunately the weeds are sometimes fitter. However, the lettuce is going crazy. I was always a salad eater in the States. As a life-long vegetarian, it is hard not to like salad, although I know many Americans who do not. I wonder how many might change their mind in Africa though. I am missing something in my diet and I think salad was it. There is nothing like pulling it out of your garden and munching it down, savoring the green taste. A great thing about Africa is how close you feel to your food. If you did not grow it someone very close by did. At first I lamented having to dig through beans to find the bad ones, pick through rice and sift flour, but now I think of how unpackaged, how unprocessed it all is. Eating is not thoughtless here, there is a process and a closeness everyone has with their food. Right up until the end when you use your hands as utensils.
Animals are also active with their food. I walked into the kitchen this morning in time to see Kimulimuli biting the head off a rat. So naturally I did what I have done for the passed 24 years when something grossed me out, disturbed me, or I just did not want to deal.... I shrieked, "Daddy!!!" Before I was forced to realize that my dad could hardly hop on a plane and fly around the world for this. I got the cat to catch rats I just did not want to see it. So no Dad, "What would an African do, who did not want to deal with it?" I thought. Of course, make a primary school student do it. I think that I have accurately depicted so far that PS Student means "Free Slave" or bottom rung of Tanzania's social hierarchy. So I stick my head out the door and yell "Njoo" (Come). Four boys come running at top speed. Let's just stop a second and say- I still cannot believe that I live in a country where it is perfectly acceptable and in fact encouraged to yell at a strangers kids and have them run to you like obedient servants. I assume they come because it is still up in the air whether or not the white woman beats children and none of them are too eager to find out. I just crinkle up my face and say "Panya" (Rat). Apparently the face crinkle translates, because they take it outside, Kimulimuli at their heels, who I guess I will save money on feeding today. That cat will eat anything- oatmeal, roaches, beans, peanut butter, pasta, spiders, fish, lettuce, crepes, and now rats. ewww. I thank the boys and they smile- I am sure thinking "That crazy white girl, she is always entertaining." And I smile thinking, "Watch it- I am a queen and this castle is run rat-free."
-Dylan
January 30, 2009
So the best rumor ever started about me in my village. I still cannot believe that I did not have to start it myself. I was at the P. School in my office working on a life skills lesson plan and on my way out two young girls asked me a question. I did not understand it but I had my dictionary, so I looked up the words. Basically they had heard that I was a queen in America and they were wondering if this is true. All I could think was "I am really going to have a complex when I leave this country." They said they had seen pictures of queens in books and they look like me. I told them that there is no queen in America, remember we have President Obama (Still not over it!) and no official queen. But I tell them about Michelle Obama and explain that she looks like them, and is the closest thing to an American Queen. This thrills the girls and I feel proud to be an American, for probably the 5th time in my life.
My garden is out of control. I have taken the attitude that I take with all things in Africa- survival of the fittest. This applies to my clothes, cat, veggies and me. Unfortunately the weeds are sometimes fitter. However, the lettuce is going crazy. I was always a salad eater in the States. As a life-long vegetarian, it is hard not to like salad, although I know many Americans who do not. I wonder how many might change their mind in Africa though. I am missing something in my diet and I think salad was it. There is nothing like pulling it out of your garden and munching it down, savoring the green taste. A great thing about Africa is how close you feel to your food. If you did not grow it someone very close by did. At first I lamented having to dig through beans to find the bad ones, pick through rice and sift flour, but now I think of how unpackaged, how unprocessed it all is. Eating is not thoughtless here, there is a process and a closeness everyone has with their food. Right up until the end when you use your hands as utensils.
Animals are also active with their food. I walked into the kitchen this morning in time to see Kimulimuli biting the head off a rat. So naturally I did what I have done for the passed 24 years when something grossed me out, disturbed me, or I just did not want to deal.... I shrieked, "Daddy!!!" Before I was forced to realize that my dad could hardly hop on a plane and fly around the world for this. I got the cat to catch rats I just did not want to see it. So no Dad, "What would an African do, who did not want to deal with it?" I thought. Of course, make a primary school student do it. I think that I have accurately depicted so far that PS Student means "Free Slave" or bottom rung of Tanzania's social hierarchy. So I stick my head out the door and yell "Njoo" (Come). Four boys come running at top speed. Let's just stop a second and say- I still cannot believe that I live in a country where it is perfectly acceptable and in fact encouraged to yell at a strangers kids and have them run to you like obedient servants. I assume they come because it is still up in the air whether or not the white woman beats children and none of them are too eager to find out. I just crinkle up my face and say "Panya" (Rat). Apparently the face crinkle translates, because they take it outside, Kimulimuli at their heels, who I guess I will save money on feeding today. That cat will eat anything- oatmeal, roaches, beans, peanut butter, pasta, spiders, fish, lettuce, crepes, and now rats. ewww. I thank the boys and they smile- I am sure thinking "That crazy white girl, she is always entertaining." And I smile thinking, "Watch it- I am a queen and this castle is run rat-free."
Homecoming
"Well, my heart's in the highlands, wherever I roam. That's where I'll be, where I call home."
- Bob Dylan
January 25, 2009
After two weeks away from site for IST it is time to go home. My car is leaving Njombe three hours late, so in Tanzania that is on time. I think of how much I have left to accomplish in my village. It seems overwhelming. We bounce and bump over the uneven muddy terrain at five miles an hour and I realize that I am actually happy to be returning home- weird. As we slowly creep I feel impatient with the progress of our trip. And I think to myself that I wish I had worn a sports bra and a helmet. About the fourth time we get stuck in the mud and I stand there calf deep, I think what I always think when I am going to my village. "Brienne, you are such an idiot." I think back to that day in training when PC met with each of us to ask what we wanted in our village. They actually suggested more of a town setting for me. "Oh, no," I said idealistically, "I want to be remote. I want to see 'real' Africa." So here I am swimming in muck. What an idiot. Boy, did they give me what I wanted. No real transport, no phone service, water in a ravine, no amenities of any kind, people unfamiliar with westerners... isolation. So I kick myself again for this decision as the villagers push the truck. But, eventually, I get home.
I push through the spiderwebs and once the door is closed I do a little happiness dance in the dark, like you do when you first live alone, which I had done before, but somehow a house in the African continent is a bit different. Am I actually happy to be here? Cannot be. I just spent two weeks with 30 other PCVs, who are my best friends and my family. But somehow I feel home in this filthy house in the middle of nowhere. After the dance it is time for checks. Check #1: Snake Check: I think I should explain... I began doing snake checks as soon as I came to Africa in my host family's home. Once I got to site I stopped, thinking that the highlands were too cold for snakes. I once jokingly told Zummi about them. "You don't check for snakes?" he asked me totally straight faced. Then he proceeded to tell me horror stories about all the Puff Adders he has had to kill around the flower farm. There was even one story about one under the covers of a bed... ummm... yeah, still trying to erase that image too. So to say the least, the snake checks are back on. I feel like a kid looking for monsters under my bed. Tentatively shaking the covers of my bed. Still not sure what I would do if there was actually one. I guess run to Mzee Ngoda's house, my wizard neighbor, and see if he can make it disappear. No snakes this time.
Check #2: Burglary Check: This basically involves making sure my powdered milk is still there. My one commodity that is worth stealing, everything else got taken already in Dar. Still have powdered milk- thank you villagers for respecting me and my need for this in my coffee tomorrow. Candles are now lit and I sit down with my three month old TIME magazine and a box of Ranch Wheat Thins (Thank you, Mariel!) It starts to pour outside and thunder and lightning rage. I may be the only PCV who does not complain about the rain- it is so cozy. In bed I listen to the crickets and all the noises that I pretend are in my head because I can't explain what is making the sounds, so it is nicer to think that they don't exist. I watch the lightning flash and feel content.
The next morning I awake at sunrise and get ready to go greet the village. They need a little face time after my two week's absence. I plan to walk through each sub village (6) to their ends- this will take me all day to stop and talk with everyone and my village is super hilly and spread out. I leave my house. "My" cow is in my yard munching grass. I look over the ravines into the other sub villages and am struck speechless. My village might be one of the most beautiful places I have ever been (and I have seen a lot of PC villages.) The houses run along the ridges with deep ravines in between. From my bedroom window I can see the sub village, Mlangali- my favorite sub village. My mud huts glint in the sun as the mist rises from the depths of the valleys and I look to the rolling green hills beyond. I realize for all the crap I put up with for being in the middle of nowhere, all the isolation, I have something so special, so unique, so removed. My village might be lacking in the modern world but nothing is lacking in it's picturesque splendor.
I walk and walk and greet and greet. I enquire about homes, work, health, babies, school and I am greeted with the usual stares but smiles. And there is always the expected, "Karibu" (Welcome). My heart becomes filled with Tanzania and her people. Bibis (Grandmothers) walk with me babbling away in Kibena that I cannot understand. Primary School students bow and greet me respectfully. Women on the farms stop work to hold my hand and tell me to come visit them. I stop to sit in the dirt with small children who have been busying themselves with sticks and leaves, so that they can paw through my foreign hair with dirty fingers. And I walk and walk. Eventually I come across a child alone. This is not surprising anywhere in Africa, once you can walk you are on your own. She is eating a mango, juice dripping off her tiny elbows. She can be no more than five. I smile at her as I pass, but she reaches one sticky hand toward me and catches my own. We walk together holding hands. I think how odd we must look, both in gold dresses- hers ragged and mine just made. Her beautiful dark skin and smoothly shaved head. My splotchy whiteness and dirty blonde hair. But we walk together down a dirt road just the same. I close my eyes and for a second am fully in the moment. There is nowhere I would rather be than in Africa, in my village, sun beating on my back, wind in the trees, walking down a dirt road holding the hand of a small sticky fingered child. Life is short, moments like these are simple, but they are what is real in my life. What I will not forget. I open my eyes and look down at her pretty face staring up at me, and I know that these are moments she will not forget either.
- Bob Dylan
January 25, 2009
After two weeks away from site for IST it is time to go home. My car is leaving Njombe three hours late, so in Tanzania that is on time. I think of how much I have left to accomplish in my village. It seems overwhelming. We bounce and bump over the uneven muddy terrain at five miles an hour and I realize that I am actually happy to be returning home- weird. As we slowly creep I feel impatient with the progress of our trip. And I think to myself that I wish I had worn a sports bra and a helmet. About the fourth time we get stuck in the mud and I stand there calf deep, I think what I always think when I am going to my village. "Brienne, you are such an idiot." I think back to that day in training when PC met with each of us to ask what we wanted in our village. They actually suggested more of a town setting for me. "Oh, no," I said idealistically, "I want to be remote. I want to see 'real' Africa." So here I am swimming in muck. What an idiot. Boy, did they give me what I wanted. No real transport, no phone service, water in a ravine, no amenities of any kind, people unfamiliar with westerners... isolation. So I kick myself again for this decision as the villagers push the truck. But, eventually, I get home.
I push through the spiderwebs and once the door is closed I do a little happiness dance in the dark, like you do when you first live alone, which I had done before, but somehow a house in the African continent is a bit different. Am I actually happy to be here? Cannot be. I just spent two weeks with 30 other PCVs, who are my best friends and my family. But somehow I feel home in this filthy house in the middle of nowhere. After the dance it is time for checks. Check #1: Snake Check: I think I should explain... I began doing snake checks as soon as I came to Africa in my host family's home. Once I got to site I stopped, thinking that the highlands were too cold for snakes. I once jokingly told Zummi about them. "You don't check for snakes?" he asked me totally straight faced. Then he proceeded to tell me horror stories about all the Puff Adders he has had to kill around the flower farm. There was even one story about one under the covers of a bed... ummm... yeah, still trying to erase that image too. So to say the least, the snake checks are back on. I feel like a kid looking for monsters under my bed. Tentatively shaking the covers of my bed. Still not sure what I would do if there was actually one. I guess run to Mzee Ngoda's house, my wizard neighbor, and see if he can make it disappear. No snakes this time.
Check #2: Burglary Check: This basically involves making sure my powdered milk is still there. My one commodity that is worth stealing, everything else got taken already in Dar. Still have powdered milk- thank you villagers for respecting me and my need for this in my coffee tomorrow. Candles are now lit and I sit down with my three month old TIME magazine and a box of Ranch Wheat Thins (Thank you, Mariel!) It starts to pour outside and thunder and lightning rage. I may be the only PCV who does not complain about the rain- it is so cozy. In bed I listen to the crickets and all the noises that I pretend are in my head because I can't explain what is making the sounds, so it is nicer to think that they don't exist. I watch the lightning flash and feel content.
The next morning I awake at sunrise and get ready to go greet the village. They need a little face time after my two week's absence. I plan to walk through each sub village (6) to their ends- this will take me all day to stop and talk with everyone and my village is super hilly and spread out. I leave my house. "My" cow is in my yard munching grass. I look over the ravines into the other sub villages and am struck speechless. My village might be one of the most beautiful places I have ever been (and I have seen a lot of PC villages.) The houses run along the ridges with deep ravines in between. From my bedroom window I can see the sub village, Mlangali- my favorite sub village. My mud huts glint in the sun as the mist rises from the depths of the valleys and I look to the rolling green hills beyond. I realize for all the crap I put up with for being in the middle of nowhere, all the isolation, I have something so special, so unique, so removed. My village might be lacking in the modern world but nothing is lacking in it's picturesque splendor.
I walk and walk and greet and greet. I enquire about homes, work, health, babies, school and I am greeted with the usual stares but smiles. And there is always the expected, "Karibu" (Welcome). My heart becomes filled with Tanzania and her people. Bibis (Grandmothers) walk with me babbling away in Kibena that I cannot understand. Primary School students bow and greet me respectfully. Women on the farms stop work to hold my hand and tell me to come visit them. I stop to sit in the dirt with small children who have been busying themselves with sticks and leaves, so that they can paw through my foreign hair with dirty fingers. And I walk and walk. Eventually I come across a child alone. This is not surprising anywhere in Africa, once you can walk you are on your own. She is eating a mango, juice dripping off her tiny elbows. She can be no more than five. I smile at her as I pass, but she reaches one sticky hand toward me and catches my own. We walk together holding hands. I think how odd we must look, both in gold dresses- hers ragged and mine just made. Her beautiful dark skin and smoothly shaved head. My splotchy whiteness and dirty blonde hair. But we walk together down a dirt road just the same. I close my eyes and for a second am fully in the moment. There is nowhere I would rather be than in Africa, in my village, sun beating on my back, wind in the trees, walking down a dirt road holding the hand of a small sticky fingered child. Life is short, moments like these are simple, but they are what is real in my life. What I will not forget. I open my eyes and look down at her pretty face staring up at me, and I know that these are moments she will not forget either.
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